


I'm fine here on my own (but if I needed somebody, it'd be you)

by placentalmammal



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Crossdressing Kink, Established Relationship, M/M, Oral Sex, Post-Canon, Size Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 13:14:04
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9898703
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/placentalmammal/pseuds/placentalmammal
Summary: When Deacon goes to visit his boyfriend, Virgil surprises him with an expected gift.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Gorrlaus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorrlaus/gifts).



> A thank-you gift for Iguana-sneeze ([Tumblr](http://iguana-sneeze.tumblr.com/) | [AO3](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Gorrlaus/)) and a sort-of sequel to [Scale](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6140860). Enjoy!

Not much changed after the destruction of the Institute. Deacon didn’t know why he thought it would. He’d never been one for unfounded optimism, but in his heart of hearts, he’d believed--or had wanted to believe--that toppling the boogeyman would make everything better. Without the Institute, man and synth could live in perfect harmony, could forgive and forget and move on with their lives. The Railroad’s work had been messy; all he wanted was a clean ending. Wrap everything up all neat and tidy, set it aside, and move on to better things.

It wasn’t that simple. It never had been. One bright, beautiful explosion couldn’t make up for six decades of darkness, and the Institute had cast a very long shadow. Most people still regarded synths with fear and suspicion, and the ‘Wealth was still subject to mob rule. The Railroad was still camped out in a dank basement, still running packages, still looking over their shoulders.

Desdemona had no patience for Deacon’s relentless pessimism. She let him talk until he’d talked himself out, and then she told him in no uncertain terms that he was to take his bad attitude and shove it up his ass. She was polite about it, but firm.

“I don’t need this right now,” she snapped, steely eyes flashing. “If that’s how you’re going to be, leave. Take a few days and come back when you’re ready to _do_ something.”

Deacon didn’t need to be told twice. He packed an overnight bag and left through the rear door, conscious of Desdemona’s grey eyes on his back. He didn’t need to see her face to picture her expression: furrowed brow, pursed lips, cigarette smoke hanging in the air around her head like a dirty halo. She’d scarcely slept in the weeks since the liberation. Too much to do, she said. Too many synths still in play.

The door shut behind him, and guilt settled in Deacon’s stomach, heavy as lead. There was work to be done--a _tremendous_ amount of work to be done--but he had nothing left to give. The liberation had been his greatest triumph and his biggest disappointment: all the Railroad’s dreams realized, all their secret hopes dashed, and nothing but uncertainty ahead of them. He needed a few days to process. _More_ than a few days. He needed to get drunk or get fucked to take his mind off things.

Fifteen minutes later, he emerged, blinking, from the tunnel. Deacon’s breath hung in the cool air, forming a cloud around his lips as he stopped to survey his surroundings. The sun had just begun to set over the western horizon, edging the city of Boston in red and gold. Skeletal highrises stood silhouetted against the red sky, their broken windows catching the light and throwing it back out over the ruined city. Gunfire echoed through the empty streets while a column of pale smoke rose from a nearby building: either someone was cooking dinner, or else they’d elected a new Pope.

With a mirthless laugh at his own joke, Deacon set out west, toward the setting sun. He followed the curve of the river, skirting raider camps and clambering over rubble. The temperature dropped as darkness fell, and before long, his fingers and face were numb with cold. He quickened his pace to keep himself warm, and he walked until he had left the city behind him and his chest and legs burned with exertion. The weight of his pack carved furrows into his aching shoulders, and he had to stop more than once to refill his canteen from the Minutemen pump stations situated along the river. 

One by one, hard yellow stars flickered into being above him, and the landscape changed from urban ruin to rolling fields and scattered subdivisions, utterly devoid of human life. He passed through Cambridge, and gave a wide berth to the smoldering crater at its heart.

His destination was an unassuming farmhouse in the countryside north of Greygarden. It was an old Victorian in the Queen Anne style, a ramshackle structure with white siding and green trim. The barn and outbuildings had fallen in centuries before, but the house endured. It had been quite grand in its day, but Deacon knew it only as a dilapidated ruin: cracked foundation and sagging roof, sunken porch and crumbling plaster.

With a nervous flutter in his chest, Deacon mounted the front steps and let himself in. The house was still and silent, but there was a light on in the kitchen. He dropped his pack and walked toward it, half-rotten floorboards creaking under his feet. “Hey,” he called, as he reached the kitchen. “Anybody home?”

“Deacon?”

The kitchen was bright and warm, illuminated by kerosene lanterns and strings of Christmas lights. The grimy countertops were cluttered with the miscellania of scientific research: specimen jars and sterno cans, a digital scale, racks of test tubes. One corner was taken up by a water-stained dresser and a lumpy mattress piled high with blankets and dog-eared textbooks.

“What are you doing here?” said Virgil. His tone was almost accusatory, but he looked so good that Deacon couldn’t possibly hold it against him. He sat with his back to the wall, bare-chested, gold-framed glasses slipping down his nose. Seated, he was as tall as Deacon and twice as broad, a solid wall of defined muscles.

Deacon’s eyes wandered over his bare chest, down to the waist of his loose-fitting grey sweatpants. “I got some time off,” he said, kicking off his shoes and dropping down beside Virgil. He dropped down beside Virgil and kicked his shoes off. “I got some time off,” he said. “I thought I’d stop by.”

Virgil cleared his throat. “I wasn’t expecting you,” he said. “If I’d known you were coming by, I would have cleaned--”

“It’s fine.” Deacon rolled onto his side, craning his neck to look up at the other man. “Definitely not the worst place I’ve ever crashed. Have I ever told you about the night I spent in a septic tank?”

“That didn’t happen,” said Virgil, settling down beside Deacon. He slung one arm across Deacon’s chest, pulling him closer.

“Alright, it was a drainage ditch, not a septic tank. But the smell was the same, and--”

His sentence ended prematurely when Virgil bent to kiss him. He kept his weight on his forearms as he hunched over Deacon, mindful of their size difference, careful not to crush him. Deacon looped an arm around his neck and pulled him closer, arching up into him. He could feel the weight of his Virgil’s cock through his trousers, trapped between their bodies.

Virgil pulled back. “It’s good to see you,” he said. “I was hoping you’d stop by soon,” he said, extracting himself from Deacon’s arms. He rolled over, mattress shifting underneath him, and reached for a package on top of the dresser. “I got you something.” He smiled, but there was a nervous glimmer in his eyes, an undercurrent of anxiety in his voice.

Eyebrows raised, Deacon accepted the gift. It was a small, flat box, wrapped in greasy newspaper and tied with twine. The knot was inelegant, the product of large, clumsy hands. Deacon turned it over in his hands, absently-mindedly scanning the headlines.

He glanced up when Virgil cleared his throat. “Go on,” he said, gesturing nervously at the package, an undercurrent of anxiety in his voice. “Go ahead and open it.”

“Relax.” Deacon worked at the knot with his thumbnail, tugging at the trailing ends until it came loose. He removed the paper with equal care and set it aside, placing string and newspaper in a neat pile on the floor. “It’s a box!” he said brightly. “Just what I always wanted!”

“You’re the worst,” Virgil muttered. “Just open the damn thing.”

Deacon stuck his tongue out as he removed the lid. The box contained a single garment: old-world lingerie, a slip made of red satin and trimmed with black lace. He hesitated for a moment, running his fingers over the shiny fabric.

“Do you like it?” said Virgil, leaning forward anxiously. “I saw it but I wasn’t sure--”

“Virgil.” Deacon looked up at him, grinning. “Shut up. I _love_ it.”

He let out a held breath, shoulders slumping with relief. “Thank god,” he said. “I didn’t want to presume, but I couldn’t resist, and--” he stopped short, frowning as Deacon clambered to his feet. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to go change!” said Deacon, over his shoulder. “Don’t move, I’ll be right back!” He tucked the box under his arm and padded down the hall, to the powder room tucked underneath the stairs. It wasn’t much: a cracked toilet and a bare overhead bulb with a pullcord, but the door locked and the mirror was more-or-less intact. Deacon stripped out of his grimy clothes and filled the sink with water from the ewer. He washed his face and scrubbed under his arms, then turned his attention to the box.

He loosened the straps and pulled the slip on over his head. The satin skated over his skin, softer than anything he’d ever worn before. It was half a size too small, pulling awkwardly across his chest, but the length was good, and the slit up the side accentuated his long legs. He paused for a moment to admire his reflection in the mirror. Red was _definitely_ his color.

Feeling dramatic, he threw the bathroom door open and stepped out into the hallway, arms raised over his head. “What do you think?” he called, turning a slow circle.

Virgil sat on the edge of the bed, mouth hanging open. His small, dark eyes swept over Deacon’s body, lingering on his chest and legs before flicking back up to his face. “You look good,” he said thickly. “The color’s really nice on you.”

Deacon blew a kiss. “You’ve got a good eye for it.” He crossed the room in three strides and flopped down onto the bed, sprawling across Virgil’s lap. “I couldn’t have done better myself,” he said, looping his arms around Virgil’s neck and pulling him down for a kiss.

It was an awkward angle for both of them: they bumped foreheads and knocked their teeth together, and Virgil drew back with a startled grunt, shrugging out of Deacon’s hold. “Careful!”

Eel-quick, Deacon scrambled upright and settled himself properly in Virgil’s lap, legs wrapped around his massive torso. “Sorry,” he said, and he leaned in for another kiss. “I guess I got a little ahead of myself.”

Grumbling, Virgil returned the kiss, his massive hands settling on Deacon’s waist. He was already half-hard, and the outline of his cock visible through his shapeless trousers. It was a bad position for frot--Deacon was so much smaller than Virgil that their dicks wouldn’t touch without gymnastics on his part--but he leaned forward anyway, squirming and straining to feel the other man’s erection pressed up against his own through the thin fabric of his filmy slip.

Virgil stifled a groan and arched forward into the touch, eyes screwed shut behind his glasses. His grip tightened on Deacon’s waist, enormous fingertips digging into his flesh, hard enough to bruise. Shuddering, Deacon reached down and palmed Virgil’s cock through his trousers, fitting his hand around the shaft and squeezing. “Happy to see me?” he murmured, lips brushing Virgil’s throat.

“You look so beautiful,” said Virgil, his voice a low rumble. “It’s been too damned long since I’ve seen you like this.”

“Feels like years.” Deacon opened Virgil’s fly one-handed and pulled out his cock. He was fully erect, a throbbing vein standing out along the underside of his shaft. Scooching backward to give himself room, Deacon bent and wrapped his lips around the head of Virgil’s huge, green dick and ran his tongue over the glans, lapping up the bead of precome that welled up from the tip.

Virgil’s wheezy groans broke into a sharp hiss as Deacon reached down to cup his balls one-handed. He ran his fingertips along Virgil’s taint, rubbing up against a particularly sensitive spot as he swirled his tongue around the head of his cock. Heat coursed through him as Virgil twitched and moaned underneath him, balls lifting inside his scrotum as he thrust his hips up, fucking into Deacon’s mouth. He was pent-up, eager, and just the top of his cock was a mouthful. After a few seconds, Deacon’s jaw began to ache from the strain. He tapped out on Virgil’s muscular thigh and pulled off with a wet pop, grinning up at the larger man.

“How was that?” He straightened up, keenly aware of the luxurious feeling of the satin against his own hard-on. He was achingly hard, sex-stupid and too horny to think straight, but he liked the way that Virgil’s beady eyes kept slipping from his face to his groin and lingering there.

The other man was breathing hard, massive chest rising and falling like a bellows. His cock shone with spit and pre-come, swollen and sadly forlorn against the broad expanse of his flat belly. He swallowed, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat, and said, “Good. Just fine.”

Grin spreading, Deacon crawled closer, leaning in to steal another kiss. Virgil’s mouth fell open readily to admit Deacon’s tongue while his huge, dextrous hands wandered up and down the length of his back, pushing the slip up over his waist to expose his ass. He kneaded Deacon’s flesh, drawing a breathy moan as his forefinger brushed Deacon’s entrance.

“Do you like that?” Virgil said, repeating the gesture and drawing it out, massaging Deacon’s perineum. “Does that feel good?”

“Fuck me,” he said, body humming with tension. “God, V, just _fuck me_ if you’re going to be teasing like that--”

“Is that an invitation?”

Deacon nodded, worrying at his bottom lip with his teeth. “I got condoms in my pack,” he said.

“I got lube in the dresser,” said Virgil eagerly. He lifted Deacon out of his lap, hoisting him into the air before setting him down on the mattress. The temporary sensation of weightlessness was dizzying, and Deacon practically swooned, legs falling open to offer Virgil an unobstructed view. “Get yourself ready, I’ll go look in your bag.” He kicked off his pants, stood, and hurried into the front room.

Deacon watched him go, eyes fixed on his muscular back and shoulders. It was unfair, really. A human could do shoulder presses for a hundred years and never have the physique that came naturally to supermutants. He sat up clumsily and reached for the bottom drawer, which contained several containers of lube and a few plugs and clamps of varying shapes and sizes. All very tempting, but not what he was after.

He grabbed one of the tins and went to work, unscrewing the top and scooping out a generous portion of lube. He laid on his back and pushed the slip up, out of the way. With a series of efficient movements, he slicked his hand up to his wrist and inserted two fingers into his asshole to stretch himself. It was a familiar, comfortable sort of ache, and he gasped out loud when his numb fingers brushed against his prostate. Groping blindly for more lube, he fingerfucked himself while he waited for Virgil to return, eagerly loosening himself up in anticipation of his fat green cock.

Virgil reappeared at that moment, standing in the doorway with a battered box of condoms. Condoms were scarce as hen's’ teeth, and had to be imported from out west, where there were still a few rubber plants in operation. Deacon had traded four liters of Tom’s antibiotic brew for a package of twelve, and he had gotten the better deal by far--

Moaning, he withdrew his slick fingers from his asshole and crooked them at Virgil in a come-hither gesture. The larger man didn’t need to be told twice, and he knelt on the mattress between Deacon’s spread legs, running his hands along his thighs. “You look so fucking good,” he said, dropping the packet of condoms onto the mattress, “so pretty. Are you ready?”

“Close.” Deacon shifted closer to Virgil, hooking one foot over the edge of the mattress to keep his legs apart. “Could use a little help, though.”

Virgil took up where Deacon left off. He slicked himself up with lube and slipped two fingers into his ass. Crying out wildly, Deacon clenched around Virgil’s fingers, hands fisting in the sheets as the larger man pushed past the initial resistance, slowly stretching him. The sensation of fullness cut to his core, and he was practically blind with lust, unconscious of everything but the fingers in his ass and the gentle caress of satin on his flushed skin.

“Virgil,” he moaned, “oh god, Virgil, please, god, _god_ \--”

He was barely aware as Virgil withdrew his fingers and left him panting and shivering on the mattress. After an interminable stretch of time, he felt the heat of the other man’s cock pressed up against his asshole, and he nearly cried in relief. A string of desperate pleas fell from his mouth as Virgil lined himself up. Deacon licked his lips and wrapped his legs around Virgil’s waist, wordlessly urging him onward, begging for him to go harder and faster. Virgil ignored his unspoken pleas, working himself into Deacon inch by inch, until after an eternity, he bottomed out, his hips flush with Deacon’s.

Deacon was so full of cock that he had no room left for words. An inarticulate moan poured out of him as Virgil began to thrust, slowly-- _so_ slowly that Deacon began to worry that he’d lose his mind. One moment flowed into the next as Virgil groaned and sweated over him, holding him steady as he fucked him, balls slapping rhythmically against his ass. He came untouched and unaided, come splattering onto his chest and dripping down to soak into the red satin. He was trembling, thighs quaking, all the tension gone out of him when Virgil finished, cock twitching inside him.

Panting, Deacon propped himself up on his elbows to watch Virgil--still half-hard--pull out. He held the condom carefully by the base as he withdrew, then slipped it off with a practiced gesture. He tied it off and tossed it in the wastebin, then extended a hand to Deacon and helped him up. “You alright?” he said hoarsely. “You seemed pretty far gone.”

“‘m fine,” Deacon mumbled. “Christ, I’m all sticky.”

Virgil laughed and rolled out of bed. He retrieved a washcloth from the dresser and tossed it to Deacon, then sat down beside him. He bent his head for a brief kiss, then straightened up, rubbing Deacon’s shoulder while he cleaned himself off. Still clumsy, he shimmied out of the slip and dabbed at the wet spots, trying to remedy the worst of the stain before it set. “Look at what you made me do,” he grumbled. “I’m gonna have to soak this to get it clean.”

“That was all you,” said Virgil. “I didn’t even touch you.”

“You had your cock so far up my ass, I could feel it in my sternum,” said Deacon. “If that’s not touching, then--”

Grinning lazily, Virgil took the slip from Deacon’s hand and set it aside. He wrapped his arms around Deacon and pulled him close, curling his large body around Deacon. “I’m not listening to you,” he said, kissing the back of Deacon’s neck. “I’m sleeping.”

“Liar,” said Deacon. “Asshole.” He relaxed into Virgil’s embrace, all the day’s residual tension draining from his body. In that moment, his anxiety felt remote, inconsequential. He stifled a yawn and rested his head on Virgil’s chest, drawing the blankets up around himself. “You’re the worst.”

“It’s your foul influence, I swear.” Virgil yawned, warm breath tickling the back of Deacon’s neck. “I was on the straight and narrow before you came along and corrupted me.”

Deacon snorted. His eyelids had grown heavy; he was warm and secure, back pressed against Virgil’s bare chest. “That’s revisionist history,” he said. “You were plenty kinky before we even--” he interrupted himself with a yawn, and Virgil laughed.

“Go to sleep.”

“Can’t, you’re talking in my ear.” Deacon shut his eyes, at ease with himself for the first time in weeks. “You’re the worst.”

“Get fucked,” said Virgil, fondly.

Deacon smiled faintly. Before he fell asleep, he mumbled “I already did.” He slept soundly, untroubled by nightmares, and did not wake until morning.


End file.
